There is no better way to end summer than with baseball. Yesterday we caught a Tigers game with Lita and Grandpa Tim. I always love a trip to Comerica Park but on this day the heat was unforgiving.
As I was standing in line for a lemon ice, looking at the fans around me, I started thinking about America’s favorite pastime. Everyone looked miserable. Kids had hair that was drenched and plastered to their necks, parents had stains to show off killer cases of sweaty butt and the medic station was full of people suffering from dehydration and heat exhaustion. Yet, no one left. The game was packed.
Feeling moved by this unwavering devotion that Tiger fans have for their team, I went back to my seat, took one look at my overheated toddler and decided to leave. Sorry Tigers. That little man comes first. Hope you understand.
My mom refers to her kids as Germicans. We are half German and half Mexican. So, as far back as this Germican can remeber, Mexican Town was a must whenever were in Detroit. We would stock up on chorizo and Mexican hot chocolate at Honeybee Market. Dad would buy cans of menudo (traditional soup made with cow stomach) and I would nearly lose my lunch at the thought of it.
After each of these trips we would walk over to any of the nearby, popular restaurants where my dad would pick the strangest thing on the menu (tongue, stomach, chicken feet or fried pig skin (NOT the same as bacon.)) The rest of us would stick to molé, taquitos and other, more appealing meals.
A few years ago, tired of the same old places, dad asked a Mexican Town resident, “where do you go for authentic Mexican food?” The man suggested we head a little further west to Mi Pueblo. We have been going there ever since. The food is fresh, delicious and reasonably priced. If you like Mexican food, I suggest you give it a try.
Sorry for the one post that seemed a little more like two. Yesterday was jam packed.
With love from Detroit,
Callie
P.S. Some may find it interesting to know my dad is the German in the Germican equation.
P.P.S. As a rule in my parents’ house, we were not allowed to call food gross unless we tried a bite of it. With this said, I can vouch that all of my dad’s favorite menu items are GROSS!!! The worst being tripe and chicken feet. Ugh, and tongue because the texture makes it feel like you are french kissing your food.
